


That So Much Should Converge

by citruses



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: F/F, M/M, Minor Character(s), Original Character-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citruses/pseuds/citruses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There once were two women who married each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That So Much Should Converge

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round Three of The Eagle Fanmedia Challenge at ninth_eagle on LJ, inspired by the picture of the bread.
> 
> Well, that's only a small part of what it was inspired by. Let me explain. In the 2nd round of the challenge, Sineala made a post called The Women of The Eagle, in which she systematically made icons of every single woman who appears in the movie -- all of them unnamed background characters, of course. There are two women of whom she made several icons. They are shown sitting beside each other in establishing shots of the arena when Marcus and Uncle Aquila are sitting down. 
> 
> "I like them! They're pretty! I wonder what they're talking about," wrote Sineala innocently, and then one of the Round Three prompts was a table covered in bread, and I seem to have given these two women names and a story. I hope I did them justice.

**ROS:**  They had it in for us, didn't they? Right from the beginning. Who'd have thought that we were so important?  
 **GUIL:**  But why? Was it all for this? Who are we that so much should converge on our little deaths? (In anguish to the Player.) Who are we?  
 **PLAYER:**  You are Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. That's enough.  
  
 _rosencrantz and guildenstern are dead_

 

There once were two women who married each other.  
  
No, that will not do. Let us begin earlier:  
  
There once were two girls who fell in love.  
  
Athrys was blonde and rough-handed and grew up in her mother's tavern, fatherless, kneading bread-dough and serving ale, pinched and pulled at by the men there.  
  
Delia was the daughter of a town councillor, Italian, speaking formally in the Roman tongue, raised by the slaves of the household who loved her and feared her father.  
  
The land where they lived was far from Rome – the great city of the south which Delia's father called 'the wheel-hub of the world' – but the customs of Rome had been brought from over the seas many years before they were born. The Roman gods and the Roman ways were mingled now with the gods and the ways that had come from the land; the two interwove like the threads of a striped tunic. Delia talked with her serving-maids in the local tongue, though she never spoke it when her father might hear; Athrys was often addressed in Latin as she passed among Roman customers, handing out warm barley-cakes. So, they understood each other's words well enough, when they met.  
  
It was a bright day, the day they met, a blue and golden day of sunshine, and many faces crowded the streets of the town. The palest of rich men in his curtained litter, and the most weather-beaten farmer from the hills beyond the town-walls. It was a festival day, else there would not have been so many folk from afar; it was a market day, else the forum-square would not have been so full of business and bustle; it was a show-day, else Athrys would not have been sitting in the arena when Delia began to climb its steps. Both girls went without cloaks, their arms and necks bared to the clement air.  
  
Several paces behind Delia, following at a respectful distance, walked her slave-chaperone. Athrys was alone, the stone bench stretching out empty beside her. Delia's slave carried a cushion for her which had cost as much as a hearty meal might at Athrys's mother's tavern. Coarse oat-bread and mutton stew, and several beakerfuls of ale.  
  
They exchanged the pleasantries of strangers, in the Roman language, as Delia sat down. Athrys looked shyly at the girl beside her and thought that she never wanted to look away again. Delia listened to Athrys stumbling over her words, shy, her voice a little more accented and rougher than Delia's own, and wondered if this was how Sappho had felt when she beheld her beloved.   
  
(She had memorised that poem when first she discovered it in her father's library, imagining the things it described with a dreamy longing, but now she tried to recall it and could only come up with fragments.  _A delicate fire rushes under my skin_ , she thought to herself, the words whispering themselves over and over in her head. A delicate fire, a delicate fire...)  
  
Athrys tried not to stare at the beautiful girl beside her, who seemed like an exotic and wonderful creature compared to the dull ordinariness of herself. That she sat so close beside Athrys only made it clearer that she was not of the same world. She must come from some strange land where the people are made differently, Athrys thought, touching the freckled skin of her own arm and feeling as though her flesh were formed of coarse baked clay like an ale-jug, while the girl beside her might be carved out of a fine wood, or even of marble, so perfect did she look.  
  
I must, thought Delia, find something to say to her. And then, when they had talked together and smiled at each other and come to call each other 'Athrys' and 'Delia' and eventually 'friend', and the show which they had come to see had finished without their paying much attention at all: I must, thought Delia, find a way to see her again.  
  
"I am not at liberty to leave my mother's tavern except on market-days," said Athrys with her eyes wide and her hand in Delia's. She did not want to grip too hard, for she felt her own hand rough and bony against Delia's soft brown skin, but she never wanted to let Delia go. They must find a way to see each other again, or Athrys did not know how she would get up from her seat; never mind returning to her mother's tavern, to be leered at by harsh-faced men and ordered about by her mother.  
  
"Next market-day, then," Delia said breathlessly, her whole body singing with an unprecedented, unidentifiable feeling. It was several days away; she wondered how she would live so long without Athrys near her.  
  
"Next market-day," Athrys replied, and although she knew she would suffer for it, she lingered as long as she could in the square outside the arena before she finally must tear herself away from Delia and return to her mother.   
  
It already felt to her as though, when she left Delia, she left a part of herself behind, as well.  
  
  
.  
  
  
Where did we begin? Ah, yes. Two girls fell in love, two women married each other.  
  
That day was the start, it might be said. It was certainly the start of a tradition between the two girls who met in the arena: every market-day meant a chance to see the other again, to touch her hand, to laugh with her and talk about nothing and everything. A time to try and fill the empty space of longing, full enough to last through all the lonely days until they met again.   
  
But perhaps the true beginning was the night when Athrys left her mother asleep and came to Delia's father's house – a place much talked-of by Delia but never before seen by Athrys, its boundary walls never breached by her foot – and she crept through the garden to Delia's chamber window and woke her and wept, asking to be held as a mother holds her child or a sister her sister, needing to be rocked and soothed and spoken to kindly. Her tears were hot on Delia's neck.  
  
Whatever is wrong, surely it cannot be so awful, said Delia, but she stopped when she saw that this only made Athrys weep the more. When she quieted she showed Delia the fresh bruises on her arms and her back, and would not speak of what had passed between herself and her mother, apart from to say that she would never marry. Never, never, my Delia; I will never.  
  
Delia took Athrys's beloved, tear-stained face in her hands and kissed her softly. My girl, my sweet girl, she thought as she did it, at once adoring and possessive. I want to subsume your pain in a kiss that feels unending like the sky is unending; I want you to climb inside my skin and be safe within me. My heart beside your heart, my blood mingled with yours.  
  
For a moment Athrys simply allowed herself to be kissed, but very soon something in her heart that had been folded up like a bud opened out and surged towards Delia, and she threw her bruised arms about Delia's neck, pressing her open mouth against Delia's lips, gasping into the kiss. Delia's skin felt soft and cool and Athrys wanted never to stop kissing her, so when Delia pulled back to breathe, she moved her mouth to Delia's neck, Delia's shoulders, pushing aside Delia's nightdress to reach the soft line of her collarbone.  
  
"Athrys," gasped Delia, her hands on Athrys's sides now, fingers pressing down lightly. "My dearest one, my love," she said, and when Athrys stopped kissing her neck to meet her eyes, Delia felt she would die if she could not have that feeling again. Being touched, being kissed by Athrys was all she desired. "Let us lie down on my bed," Delia whispered, unbinding Athrys's golden hair so that it fell down around them like a rippling curtain. When Athrys pulled away to unfasten her dress, Delia smiled and kissed her lips again quickly before she moved to pull back the bed-covers.  
  
  
.  
  
  
Another beginning, that night: two girls who met at the arena, two friends who fell in love; two women who slept in each other's arms and woke in the yellow morning light, still embracing.  
  
"My mother!" Athrys cried as soon as her eyes had opened. At once she pulled herself away from Delia, gathering the bedclothes about her. The whole of her body blushed with belated embarrassment, as she thought of the secret things they had done in the night, and then of her mother and how humbly she would have to grovel, how hard she must work in the coming days to make up for having disappeared overnight. "I did not mean to sleep so long," she got out, her voice dry and small with the morning and the sudden shame of waking up naked. She reached for her dress where it lay on the floor and wriggled into it quickly, hearing Delia move around behind her.  
  
"Athrys, my love," Delia murmured, still sounding as content as she had when they had drifted into sleep. Perhaps it is easy for  _her_  to feel that way, Athrys found herself thinking hotly as she hastened to pin up her hair, her heart thudding faster and her stomach beginning to churn. She may stay here in her bed all day if she wishes, but I cannot. I must go back to my drudgery and my mother's anger.   
  
"Athrys," repeated Delia, and then her body curved around Athrys's back where she sat on the edge of the bed.  
  
How she longed to lean back and let herself be kissed and caressed once again! But it was impossible; the night had been so wonderful, too wonderful, but the morning had come now. She must steel herself and go home, like every time they said goodbye to each other. She shook off Delia's arms and stood, letting her dress fall down about her legs.  
  
And then it came a third time from behind her. More softly, worried and hesitant now. "Athrys?"   
  
She had to turn at that, tears all of a sudden stinging her eyes. "Delia," she tried to say, the word barely forming itself before Delia rose and came to her, still naked, wrapping her long dark body around Athrys and pressing them together so hard it almost hurt.  
  
"I have to go," said Athrys desperately, trying to control her breath, which was ragged and starting to come in sobs. She felt herself shaking in Delia's grasp.  
  
"Athrys," Delia said again, the name sounding like a spell or a prayer and Athrys thought of the way they had said each other's names in the night, lovingly, breathlessly, over and over. "Athrys, my darling," said Delia tenderly, and then she made Athrys sit down until she could stop herself crying. Swiftly she slipped her nightdress over her head, and then came to cradle Athrys in her arms again. My beautiful girl, she thought, stroking over Athrys's hair and her freckled shoulder and down her thin side under her coarse woollen dress.   
  
"Listen to me, my dearest one," she said, and her voice was soft, but strong and full of purpose. "I have been thinking. And saving money. I planned to tell you the next time we met, or the next; I delayed, because I worried that you did not feel so strongly for me as I do for you –"  
  
Through her tears she smiled at that, dearest Athrys – running a hand over her face. Her voice croaked when she spoke. "You know now, I hope."  
  
Delia touched her neck softly and kissed the smiling mouth, so much beloved. "I do. I know." She took Athrys's hand in her own and squeezed it. "But listen, my darling. Listen to me now and I will tell you why you may not need to go back to your mother's tavern ever again."  
  
  
.  
  
  
The first night and first morning were ten years ago when two women travelled by sea from Britain to Spain, accompanied by a single freedman, a strong young fellow who called them 'my friends'. The three travellers carried everything they would need in their new lives themselves, the heavy bundles equally distributed amongst them. The dark woman's hands were as rough as the fair woman's, now, the two of them equally modest and hard-working. Their bodies were leaner and their faces more lined and they slept beside each other every night like husband and wife.  
  
In Spain they travelled about for a while, as they had done in Britain when they first left their families, looking for somewhere to settle. There was a beautiful hill-farm near Lucentum which was almost perfect, only somehow it did not feel as though their hearts resided there; and then they travelled further inland and met with two farmers in need of three labourers, to help work their land and tend to their horses.  
  
The farmers were near the same age as the travelling women; they said that they too had spent time in Britain. One man was dark and one was fair, as it was with the women as well. One was born Roman, the other British, from the tribes of the north. Their names were Marcus and Esca.  
  
"She and I need only one room to sleep in," the fair woman told Marcus when they offered their services as farm-labourers, her solemn eyes meeting his squarely. If they did not fit into his Roman picture of the world then they would leave as quickly as might be, with their freedman for protection; it had happened before.  
  
But, "That is well," Marcus said, and he smiled at them both. A highly un-Roman smile, the dark woman thought, and then Esca nodded firmly and said, "Marcus and I need only one room, too," and from that moment everything seemed just to fit, like mosaic tesserae slotting into place.  
  
  
.  
  
  
If the morning in the arena was the start, and the end (as they sometimes told each other ardently, truthfully) would be death, then perhaps everything else was simply scrolls and scrolls of middleness; but there was nothing wrong with that, not at all. Many days were similar on the farm: working with Marcus and Esca and the other farmhands, in the fields under the southern sun, or in the stables with their familiar sounds and smells. There was a peace to be found, and cherished, in the sameness of their lives.  
  
But there was one particular day which might have counted as another beginning – or another ending, which is often the same thing, for nothing new can begin unless something old also finishes. When we began I promised a marriage, and that is what I end with, as well. You will see the true oneness, the unending circularity, of things.  
  
The day began like any other for the two women on the farm: the usual combination of hard work and easy companionship, laughing over the stable chores and kneading bread-dough together in the cool farmhouse kitchen. In the afternoon they ate salted meat and dried apples, and then walked out together to the woods on the north side of the farm; found a clearing, laid out a small circle in stones on the grass, and set a fire in the centre of the circle. They had talked in detail about how they would do this, the dark woman and the fair, and now it was time. They were alone. They positioned themselves carefully inside the circle, standing on opposite sides of the fire.  
  
For a moment the two women looked at each other as they stood, falling still, and then at once they both brought their hands up to clasp together over the flames. They held tightly. The fair woman was the first to speak.  
  
"Where you are Delia, I am Athrys," she said, and thought of how she had shaken and cried on that first morning in Delia's chamber, as a new world began to open itself to her. Her voice was steady now, her eyes dry.  
  
"Where you are Athrys, I am Delia," the dark woman replied, and her thoughts were of the feeling of Athrys's ribs under her fingers when they held each other under the bed-covers every night.  
  
They said other words, the two women, as they stood in the circle together with the fire between them. They acknowledged other rituals, as they had decided. But the thing began with those two statements, matched and mirrored, like the moon matches the sun or the left hand mirrors the right. Athrys, Delia; Delia, Athrys.  
  
Later, they would put out the fire and rearrange the stone circle, returning the clearing to the way it had been before, as though nothing had passed between them there. Later still, they would go back to the place they had made their home, and tell the other folk of the farm what had happened, beginning thus:  _There once were two women who married each other._


End file.
